The Boy In The Picture
by funeral flowers
Summary: This story SUCKS. Heh. It was on my desktop, so lonely... and I decided to load it. One-shot, songfic to "Home" by Sheryl Crow. PG-13 for discussion of rape, anorexia, language, teen pregnancy, and suicide. Seems kind of evil… Confused RonMione


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Disclaimer: I wish.

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Note: This is my oldest piece of good fiction. It is obscure, and things only tie in at the end. Have fun. Note: two character deaths. Slightly AU.

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The Boy In The Picture

The Weasley family sat around the dinner table, sharing stories and passing plates. Mrs. Weasley was scolding a sixteen-year-old Ginny for spilling her pumpkin juice, two nineteen-year-old twins were talking to their older brothers and father about how they won _another _Quidditch match, and Percy was reading the Evening Prophet quite contentedly while Ginny mopped up the juice with her napkin. They were all laughing, aside from Molly and Percy, yet all were happy and if you happened to bring up the name Ron Weasley, all heads would turn and be silent, and the youngest would run out of the room.

"Mum," Ginny began, "where's _he _now?" Molly gave her daughter an immoral look.

"Eat your dinner Ginny. Don't spoil ours." Ginny then obeyed, staring out the window at times and then looking down at herself.

"May I be excused, Mum?"

"Yes, Ginny, you may." Ginny stood and headed towards the bathroom.

- - -

Out in the flurries of snow in Hogsmeade stood a one Ron Weasley. He entered the Hog's Head with his eyes lowered and nothing but a sweater with an 'R' on it and a pair of jeans keeping him from the wind. The familiar scent of goats and sweat lingered around his nostrils. He coughed a bit and let his eyes travel around and rest upon a shrouded figure by a table with someone else sitting in front of them. The table housed a crystal orb and some cards laid out in a peculiar fashion. Ron sat at the bar.

"One fire whiskey please." He placed two galleons down and waited for the bartender to get out one of the dirty glasses and pour some of the frothy liquid into it. You see, unlike butter beer, which tends to give you a warm, fuzzy feeling, fire whiskey… just doesn't. The pewter glass was handed to him without any questions. He looked at the red liquid in the glass, how it looked so cold. He lifted it to his lips and felt the warmth from such a cool drink, trickle down his throat. Ron looked up to the stairs heading to the next floor and wiped his mouth.

The bartender gave a grunt and Ron banged hard on the counter.

"Heh?"

"What's upstairs?"

"Wanna see for yeself?" His voice was like thunder mixed with gravel.

"Uh…" Ron stood up and started walking. People paid him no mind. The floorboards creaked under his feet, and he heard a low moan and a growl from upstairs. He saw a man sitting in a chair with a woman dancing over him and touching him in places Ron was sure no one had ever touched on him. Except for that night, that night when Ron had waited for her to come down. He had kissed her first, softly, then passionately, and he could feel her beginning to collapse. To hurt. He had begun to strip her of her clothes and enter her with her screaming and trying to push her off. He had been intoxicated to the point of no return, but it was he, Ron, doing that.

"STOP!" She'd yelled. "RON! GET OFF!" He hadn't said a thing. And then she pushed him away and collected her clothes, crying. Hermione left and hadn't spoken to him all summer, and all of their seventh year. And he was turning eighteen. And he was barred from home. He couldn't see Ginny grow up, couldn't see Hermione again, and the way Harry looked at him…

He couldn't stand it.

- - -

Ginny watched the contents of her stomach fall into the toilet as she flushed it to hide the noise. The remains of her dinner washed away into the blue water. She sighed and stood up and washed her face and then brushed her teeth, swallowing a good amount of mouthwash to hide the smell of vomit. She bit her lip and looked into the mirror. In her eyes, she looked corpulent. She couldn't get over how much weight she needed to lose. Ginny quickly bent over the toilet again, her eyes shut so as not to see the contents of her stomach cascade from her mouth into the flowing water.   
Meanwhile at the table George looked around and struck up a conversation.   
"Molly --"   
"Just because you are a grown man, does NOT mean you are to call me by my first name."   
"Mum then. Mum, haven't you noticed how thin Ginny has gotten?"   
"Yes, I have. Do you think she's ill?"   
"Well I think she's always been ill." Fred contributed through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, gravy, and chicken. "Up 'ere." He pointed to his head. Mrs. Weasley reached over and slapped him on the arm causing him to drop his fork in the ground.   
"Fred, dear, go clean your fork, and use the sink in the bathroom, the kitchen sink is backed up."   
"Gotcha." Fred gave a mini salute and went up the stairs, eyes wide at what he saw through the open door.   
"GINNY! Mu--"   
"Don't say a word." Ginny said through clenched teeth. Fred closed his eyes.   
"Ginny, you can't--"   
"Fred. Don't tell _anyone_."   
"Fine." Fred looked around and before he knew it, a small hand was wrapped around his forearm, the nails digging into his skin.   
"I mean it."   
"I said I wouldn't tell, I mean I wouldn't tell."

Ron stared and turned abruptly, starting down the stairs, almost afraid. But then he turned again and walked in. He was pursued almost immediately and felt this woman pressuring herself against him, and his silent cries and moans. This was what he had always wanted. To feel loved, and to feel good. He had emptied his pockets of all their money, all the money he had brought that night, to be ensured he would have a night of complete pleasure. He dressed in a daze. He left in a daze. He fell asleep in an alley with the snow encircling him in a daze.

Ron awoke to the bitter swirling sounds of wind and snow around his ears. He awoke feeling cheap and used. In the "session" of last night he caught the girl's name, something like Blair. No, no, it was Daisy… Blaise. That was it. He sighed and got up uncomfortably, walking past all the streets filled with people. They seemed to not even know he was there, even if he bumped into them. He stared blankly ahead, eyes filled with liquid, brimming with what would have been tears if he hadn't promised to not cry.

"Sorry." He said to a woman as he bumped into her. In slow motion it seemed, keeping in a frozen frame when her gaze met his, she looked at him, with an angry face and an irritated manner. Ron hurried on, passing the Three Broomsticks where he had spent so much time as a young lad with his friends, sitting carelessly in front of the roaring fire with a butter beer in hand, laughing over their bogus Divination predictions. Yes, he had had quite the life before he went and ruined it for himself. He had to go ruin it.

It was something he had been bound to do.

- - -

Harry sat with Hermione in the Three Broomsticks; Hermione stared passively out the window as Harry held her hand under the table, her arm half-resting on his leg.

"What is it that you had to tell me?" Harry asked her, looking at his watch, not wanting to be late getting back to school, even though they were on Winter Holiday, because Dumbledore wanted to speak with him.

"Harry, I went to the doctor about a week ago." Hermione began. Harry froze, knowing exactly what she was going to say.

"A-And?"

"I'm going to have a baby." She sounded so depressed, her voice flat and unexcited. When she was sitting on her bed, all alone, her hands pressed to her stomach, she could feel the vitality, the excitement that a human being, a girl, was living and growing in her. But another thought pierced her dreams. She was so young, so inexperienced with raising a family. She took her hand out of the grasp of Harry's hand and fiddled with her coffee cup, adding more and more sugar, waiting for Harry's reply. Harry grabbed Hermione's hand and moved it away from what could be the most sugary coffee on the face of the earth, letting her spill the white crystals onto the table.

"Hermione… are you sure?"

"Yes, damn it! I'm sure!"

"Is- is… Ron the father?" Hermione stalled for a moment, glancing around and then just staring at her feet, feeling the tears well up in her eyes, that stinging sensation from behind her eyes signaling an emotion attack.

"Who else could be?" Harry hugged Hermione from across the table, kissing her on the forehead.

"Hermione, I am going to help this child grow up, and I am going to make sure it never meets Ron. I am going to make sure it is the happiest child on earth, and that it has a perfect family." Hermione was already tearing up and pressed her well-manicured hands to her lips.

"Thank you Harry. Thank you." And she got up slowly yet abruptly and headed out in the street, eyes fixed on the ground, leaving Harry confused as he apparated off towards Hogwarts, already twenty minutes late.

- - -

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I woke up this morning/Now I understand/What it means to give your life/To just one man/Afraid of feeling nothing/No bees or butterflies/My head is full of voices/And my house is full of lies

Hermione breathed slowly with her hands over her stomach. She was crying with the four-poster's curtains drawn around her. It had been a month since she had told Harry, a long month. It was still snowy, and school was back in session, and she had failed at least five consecutive tests.

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This is home, home /And this is home, home /This is home

Harry sat on the grounds, head in his hands, pondering on how quickly this month had passed by. He pressed his hand to his scar, feeling the pain through his arm. It was unfair how much had happened to him in these past seventeen years. His parents were killed. He was blessed with his scar. He had to live with The Dursleys. He sighed. He had to fight Voldemort numerous times, he had to see Sirius die… Harry sighed again and looked up at the sky. It was a swirled gray and white, a mixture of lies, infidelity; untruthfulness…

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I found you standing there/When I was seventeen /Now I'm thirty-two/And I can't remember what I'd seen in you/I made a promise/Said it everyday/Now I'm reading romance novels/And I'm dreaming of yesterday

Ron paid Blaise and left. His whole body ached and he could tell he smelled of cheap perfume and insecurity. He stopped by his place that he had managed to get, barely scraping by on low-minimum wage. Turning the shower on, he stripped himself of his clothes and stepped in, the hot water getting rid of the grime and dirt from the past month of sleeping in alleys, but did nothing for the dirty and used feeling inside of him. He scrubbed until he was red, but there was no cure for the nastiness he felt.

All that was in the apartment was a cardboard box that held the stuff he had brought with him, the bag it had been in before, and a few blankets with a pillow. He looked at the shabbiness of graying carpet and torn wallpaper that surrounded him as he dressed. He sunk onto the makeshift bed and cried himself silently to sleep.

He hadn't done that in years. He knew he needed something. He felt an insatiable anger towards his family for putting them out. Why couldn't they understand? He loved Hermione. But now he had no chances with her whatsoever.

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This is home, home/And this is home, home/This is home

Hermione sobbed and felt herself being shaken. It was only herself, she had just jolted form the cold. She stood with her hands resting on her stomach. She stared out the window.

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I'd like to see the Riviera/And slow dance underneath the stars/I'd like to watch the sun come up/In a stranger's arms

Harry walked to the steps, letting himself sink and fall hard onto their stone hardness. His countenance was frozen in a deep pensive thought. He banged his fist against the edge of the steps in a spurt of instant and abrupt movement. It began to bleed. He got up again, colors rushing to his eyes, and began down the way to Hogsmeade.

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This is home, home

Ron woke quickly and felt the urge to walk, and keep walking until he had such a far way home that he couldn't go back and had to die right there. He headed into Hogsmeade.

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And this is home, home

Hermione stared out the window and saw Harry running. She decided to follow and as she did, she imagined a caring Ron, one that didn't rape her. One that she could make love to and be happy when she would have a baby. He would kiss her stomach when he found out and would keep a light hand on the slight curve of her belly. She could kiss him, and hold him. But instead Ron had chosen to hurt her.

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This is home

Harry bumped into Hermione on his retreat and she forced him to continue. They walked along, hand in hand, Harry falling in love with her every minute they talked, and Hermione wanting Ron, despite what he had done, even more each second. Harry could sense her displeasure and decided to speak up.

"Thinking about him?" He asked her, feeling her hand pull out of his and seeing her look around.

"Yeah." But not in the way you think so, she added silently.

"I want him jailed for what he did to you, Hermione."

"No- no, Harry! I mean, that's a little too much."

"Hermione, he forced you to-"

"I know what he did." Hermione said angrily. "It's not like I wasn't there, you know!"

"Hermione!" Harry protested, but she had already stormed off, quickly disappearing in the crowd.

- - -

Ginny stared up at the ceiling of her four-poster at Hogwarts. She held her stomach, which was hurting considerably. She could not stand the pain. Ginny pulled back the side curtains and stood up and her head felt so unbearably light. She reached for one of the posts and tried to still her dizzy body, but it would not go away. She held her breath and then tried to breathe steadily, but it would not work. She could feel herself shattering into a hundred pieces, leaving only a silhouette of herself standing, leaning… Ginny stumbled to the other side of the girls' dormitories and pushed the door open, stumbling down the stairs and falling onto the arm of a vacant chair. She could feel the colour simply draining from her face, leaving her a ghastly white.

Before she could comprehend the seriousness of it all, she crumpled into a heap on the floor.

- - -

"Ron!" Hermione yelled across Hogsmeade, waving her hand and running as far as a three-month pregnant woman could. She saw the redhead's look of surprise as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Hermione pulled back and looked at Ron her eyes brimming with tears.

"Stop… it's only fake…" it seemed Ron was telling himself that it wasn't her. Hermione panted from running and sniffed.

"No! Ron! It IS me! It's Hermione!" She felt the hot sun upon her and she took her hands off his shoulder.

"You hate me," he mumbled quietly to her.

"I did… what you did was wrong, Ronald, wrong. It hurt me!"

"I'm sorry… I really am… I had a few drinks… I was carried away… I loved you…"

"Loved?" This statement, this simple word in past tense, hurt Hermione more than anything he would have said could have done. It meant he no longer loved her.

"I love you still, Hermione," Ron whispered, "but you hate me."

"I told you, I did." Hermione's lower lip trembled as she looked at him in front of her. She knew she could not convey any of the emotions she was feeling in words, it was simply not possible. The anger, the love, the hatred, the care… "But, I know I should hate you, but something keeps making me love you!" That love, that friendship, had gone deeper than anything Hermione had ever known. She could feel a hand on her shoulder; she turned around.

"Come on, Hermione," he said coldly, looking daggers at Ron. No, not daggers - swords.

"No," Hermione shot back, staring into Ron's eyes.

"What? Hermione, have you forgotten _what he did to you?_"

"I've decided to forgive him," she whispered.

"You can't just forgive him!"

Hermione turned around and Harry saw the tears running down her cheeks.

"Yes, I can."

In all the commotion, Ron had turned around and began running. Running from the confusion and the hell he had started. Ron Weasley would never be able to see his child be born; he could never love Hermione. He skidded into a nearby alley, and his shaking fingers fumbled for something sharp. As he cut his palm on a beer bottle, tossed haphazardly on the ground, he knew he had found it. Picking the satisfactory object to his throat, it was no longer glass: it was a beautiful article.

- - -

The ministry official approached two young adults. "Good day," he said, reaching in his pocket and producing a picture. "Do you know this man?"

"Never saw him a day in my life," the reply from a black-haired, bespectacled boy.

"No," was what the bushy-headed girl of probably eighteen answered.

"Sorry for the interruption, then."

"Who was in the picture?" The girl questioned the boy. "Why didn't you let me see?"

"I was sure it was someone we didn't know. Come, now." He turned her and they walked off.

- - -

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WIZARD FOUND DEAD IN ALLEYWAY BY HOG'S HEAD

A young wizard, close to nineteen, was found in an alleyway. It seemed he committed suicide with a beer bottle. Ministry officials have asked around if anyone knew him. No one did.

The article went on and on. Molly Weasley felt compassion for the young boy, probably turned down by a lover, showing her that he could go to the extreme. "Tut, tut..." she said, turning the page to continue reading.

The ID on the boy said his name was

Molly spilled her coffee on the paper and sighed. "Ah, well, I don't really want to continue reading _that_, now do I?"

"Good morning, Molly!" Arthur kissed her on the cheek.

"Morning, Arthur."

A redheaded boy stomped down the stairs, and ran a hand through his hair. "Mum!" He yelled.

"Yes, Fred, dearest, what is it?"

"Mum, Ginny's dead."

"Oh my God…"

- - -

The years passed. A small redheaded child tottered around the living room, and a black-haired man put his arm around a mousy-brown haired woman. Hermione had named her now three-year-old daughter Genevra Veronica Potter, after her dead friend, and her missing friend. Never a day went by, that Hermione prayed that an angel could be sent to her, preferably an angel she knew, to tell her where her lost love was. She would never know who the boy in the picture was, yet her gut feeling told her who it was.

"C'mere Ronnie!" Hermione said, picking up the petite child and smiling at her little face, with the many freckles.

"Read me story," she said decisively.

"Which one, Ronnie? Cat In The Hat?"

"No," Ronnie whispered, as though the answer was obvious. "Read me Plato's essay. You and daddy looked at it yesterday, and it sound interesting." Hermione had only read those essays to herself.

"I don't think you'll understand it, but-"

"Mommy, you're the one who wanted to read me Genesis two days 'go. I understooded that."

"Oh, Ronnie, you're so smart."

"Mommy, was daddy smart?"

Harry had left the room already.

"You know daddy is!"

"No, he's not my daddy. My real daddy. Whom you and other daddy talk about. The daddy I never seen."

"What?"

"Why I get Veronica as a name."

"Oh, Ronnie…"

"Who you cry for at night, and who you want back. Is he daddy?"

"Yes, Veronica. He is daddy."

"Is daddy coming home?"

"No." Hermione said to her young daughter. "Daddy will not be coming home. Daddy is with the angels." It was then that she knew whom Harry did not let her see those many years ago. It was that night she took a sleeping Genevra Veronica _Weasley_ with her to the Burrow, never looking back.

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